Red Pants and First Times
by MrsCowMatch
Summary: For the Red Pants Contest. Sherlock knows everything. John has forgotten Sherlock knows everything, but is painfully reminded of that by dear Molly over tea. John knows he has to tell Sherlock, and Sherlock realises he has to speak up. So, John knows Sherlock knows, but does Sherlock know what he thinks John knows what he knows? Smuty!Johnlock. Wordcount is lying. Less than 5K,


**_"Red Pants and First Times"_ **

**Written by CowMow and MrsCumberbatch for the "Red Pants Contest" on fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic tumblr**

**Wordcount: **4967 (Not on here, but in Word it did. Honestly.)

**Rating: M. **Definitely.

**Warnings: **JOHNLOCK!

This rests us to tell you: Originally, this story was 6K. Cutting words and scenes out felt like kicking a little puppy. It felt like telling John Sherlock didn't love him. Or that his red pants had been eaten by a dinorsaur. We blame the rules. The rules were WRONG!

Sincerely yours,  
Miss A. and Miss A.

...

"No shit, Sherlock! _You_ need _my_ help?"

Sherlock clenched his teeth, trying to bite back a nasty deduction or another retort. He detested repeating himself. This whole situation was getting out of hands, and Sherlock hated the feeling of not having the proper tools, the needed knowledge or the longed-for experience he needed to solve this infuriating problem.

"I won't repeat myself, Lestrade. Just tell me what I have to do to fix this."

Greg took another swig from his cool, very expensive beer and swallowed it heavily, staring wide-eyed at the tall man opposite him. Sherlock Bloody Holmes didn't come to your office to invite you to all the pints you want in exchange for help every day, so he had, from very early on, decided he was going to enjoy this. _Properly_. "And who am I to tell you what you should do? Listen Sherlock, I am no-"

"The fact your marriage has failed at least twice in the last year and you're doing counseling to save the rest of it and keep your wife with you even when your work schedule involves more crime scenes than the dinners and dates she obliges you to go with her, that gives you the experience I need. If you are capable of keeping your wife for so long, you are also capable of giving me an opinion and an advice for this situation. So finish your beer and answer my question," Sherlock rattled, quickly, nervously.

Greg finished his beer, very, very slowly, and raised his hand to the bartender, gesturing him to give him another one. "OK. You like John, but more as a friend, if I understand correctly?"

"Yes."

"And you want to tell him?"

"Yes."

"But you really don't know what he would say?"

"No." It sounded timid, very un-like Sherlock.

Lestrade almost felt sorry for the man. "Haven't you deduced him? I mean, you can tell me I had passionate sex with my wife, judging by the state of my shirt collar. You can tell me what I had for breakfast and what my _wife_ had for breakfast. You should be able to anticipate John's reaction, knowing the way you know _him_, Sherlock."

The detective frowned. Of course he had been observing John. He had been doing it ever since he started feeling differently about him and the nature of their relationship. The collar of his shirt and how it just brushed John's hairline. The way John tied his shoelaces, bent over, fumbling with the laces in his skilled hands. The way John held his tea cup, his one pinkie delicately in the air, calloused fingers wrapped around a hot mug. The way John wore his jeans, low on his hips, and yet such a good fit...

The answer to Sherlock's problem was all written over his flatmate, and yet he couldn't tell if he was right or not.

He had noticed John hadn't been dating any women for months, and that his casual attitude towards him had changed as well. There had been days in which John would be comfortable walking around Sherlock wearing only his dressing gown and nothing else, or sometimes merely a towel hanging low on his hips after a scorching shower, but things had changed lately. Now, John was always covering his body, and it was very difficult to see more than five square centimeters of his tanned skin when he was wearing shoes and clothes all day long.

Things had definitely changed between them, but it seemed none of them was willing to take the first step in finally admitting.

Despite knowing John's answer, John's possible reaction to his words about his new feelings, Sherlock was afraid. And he wasn't going to admit it.

"I don't want to deduce this time."

Greg raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "You're afraid, aren't y -"

"I am not!" Sherlock snapped, his voice raising just the smallest pitch.

"Well, my advice is this: tell him."

Sherlock stared at him, waiting for him to elaborate but Greg finished his beer before doing so. "What I'm tryin' to say is that you should go and tell 'im. John's a very understandin' guy, so if he doesn't feel like you, well... he'll understand," explained Greg.

"That's all very fine, but… but what if he doesn't understand?"

Greg hesitated for a moment and ordered another beer. "Worst case scenario? He'll move out and tell you to keep your fuckin' ass away from 'im."

"John doesn't -"

Waving vaguely with his hand, Greg interrupted the nervous man. "I know. Look, what I said is that John is an understanding bloke, Sherlock. And again, you shouldn't be afraid of his rea -"

"I'm not afraid!" Sherlock looked angry.

Greg smiled, took his glass and raised it on the air "Cheers, Sherlock. Now, I have a few cold cases I know you'll want to take a look at."

...

"So, what you're trying to say is that you're in love with Sherlock, but you don't know whether you should tell him or not?"

John sighed thoughtfully, and nodded. Molly had a red blush on her cheeks and as soon as John told her his problem, she almost choked on her earl-grey tea. That was the moment when John truly regretted going to Molly for advice.

He should have gone to Lestrade, but he was working closely with Sherlock and was therefore unsuitable. Then, he had thought about Mike Stamford or one of his mates from the Army, but somehow his mind told him that is was Molly who would fully understand, that she was going to tell him exactly what he should do. After all, her crush on Sherlock seemed to have disappeared since Sherlock came back from his "death" after Moriarty and the mess with the police. Molly helped him to disappear and fake his death and when he came back, they barely saw her. And that was the reason he had come to her for advice.

"Well, John, you should know, erm... I'm not the best counselor when it comes to relationships... but, erm, what makes you think Sherlock will reject you?"

"No, Molly, I mean, I came to you because you're my friend and I really like you, not becau -" John stopped himself and thought about Molly's question. "What do you mean 'what makes me think Sherlock will reject me'?"

Molly smiled, amused. "I mean, why do you think Sherlock will say no? I'm sure he feels the same."

They were sitting in this very nice cafe Molly had chosen as soon as John approached her at Bart's. His first option was a pub, but she asked him if they could just have tea and John, obviously, accepted. Now there they were, sitting face to face close to the window drinking their Earl Grey with chocolate biscuits trying to solve John's newest view on his life.

"Because Sherlock is- Sherlock is... well, you know," John tried, wanting to say it more eloquently. It was impossible, though. Sherlock simply _was _Sherlock, and only someone who knew the man was able of helping out. Molly understood and she nodded, nibbling on her biscuit.

"You mean, you don't dare to tell him? I think you should."

John nodded, mocking, "Yeah! And, then what? I tell him _'Hey Sherlock, you know what? I know I always liked women but lately I can't stop thinking about you and your arse, your lips and your curls…' _Shit. Sorry Molly, I'm so sorry."

Molly laughed and shook his head. "It's OK John. Have you considered Sherlock already knows how you feel?"

The question was asked, and John's world as he knew it fell apart. He felt as if his very soul was being drowned in a pool of pure confusion and fear, like his entire existence was being smashed into a wall of shame. John wanted to disappear and sink deep into the tea pot. John had forgotten that. He had simply ignored the fact Sherlock always knew everything. Sherlock bloody Holmes was capable of knowing if he had a nightmare in the middle of the night. He knew when John had skipped his cup of tea in the morning. It was scary. And now Molly suggested it, John wanted to disappear of this earth to never come back. Weren't they building some station on Mars? He had to look that up, mental note.

"Did you think about that?" Molly asked again when John didn't answer.

"No, I haven't," John admitted reluctantly.

Molly patted his arm comfortingly, seeing his distress.

John took a sip of his tea and nodded, trying to wrap his mind around it. "So you think he'll say yes?" His voice was incredulous, as if Molly had just pointed at a green alien.

Molly nodded, sure of her case. "Don't be afraid, John. When he faked his death three years ago, all he thought about was you. Any of Moriarty's men he killed, he killed for you. Just to keep you safe."

...

John let the hot water run down his naked body. He closed his eyes and let his mind rest after so much thinking. Molly had been very helpful, and John readily admitted that without her he would still be struggling with his feelings.

Stopping with thinking wasn't that easy either. He was a full grown man and not every day you wake up realising your male flatmate has a really nice arse, or that you want to kiss and taste his lips, claiming them and making them puffy and red, just for you. John couldn't even remember when everything started, but he remembered insisting that Sherlock ate some toast with jam for breakfast so he would have some sugar in his blood. The sticky jam stained the corner of the full lips and when Sherlock's pink tongue began licking it away, savouring the strawberry jam. John thought it was so, so sexy that he wanted to clean off that jam himself, licking it away from Sherlock's lips.

And after thinking and even more thinking, John was sure it wasn't just a mere crush. John really wanted Sherlock for life. He never cared for anyone as he cared about Sherlock.

The thing was that John was fully willing to walk that new path, if only he was sure about Sherlock's feelings for him.

John wrapped himself up with his towel and walked to his room. Over his bed, a pair of red pants and a new change of clothes were waiting for him.

It was almost time for dinner, and John knew they had a nice risotto waiting for them in the fridge, courtesy of their landlady, not their housekeeper. John had just taking the risotto out when Sherlock arrived at the kitchen.

"I thought you were coming late tonight," John remarked, pulling the plastic wrapping away from the box, looking for a plate where he could heat the food on.

Sherlock shook his head. "Lestrade's cold cases are dull, boring and predictable. Heating that risotto Mrs. Hudson left?"

John nodded, smiling, while he inspected the insides of the microwave, making sure there weren't any fingers or eye balls left to worry about.

Sherlock smiled too and sat down on his usual chair at the kitchen table. He took his time observing John, and he looked different from the last time they had seen each other early in the morning. He had had a shower, a very long one, his hair was still damp from it. He hadn't dried himself well, his shirt was wet in some parts like on his back and chest, and his pajama bottoms were loose on his hips so he could see a bit of his underwear.

Red pants.

John was wearing _red pants._

Since when did John have _red pants_?

Not that Sherlock was a stalker or an extremely crazed flatmate, but he was fairly sure he knew every single piece of John's clothes, socks and pants. These _red pants_ were new and -

"Sherlock, I think we need to talk."

The detective looked at him. John was being serious and judging by the tone of his voice and the way his blue eyes were straight on him, Sherlock knew it _was_ something serious.

"Yes John, I think we do need to talk."

John nodded and placed both plates with the steaming risotto on the table and handed Sherlock a fork and a glass of wine as he sat down opposite him.

"We can discuss it after dinner-" John said, picking up his fork.

"Yes, I think that will be wise-" Sherlock nodded, sipping from his wine.

"No, you know what, Sherlock? I- Erm… can we discuss it now? Food can wait, no-Are you hungry?" John stammered, clearly struggling with his words.

Sherlock calmly answered, "not at all, John."

"OK, good." John sighed, rubbing his eyes. "I know you can see things most people can't-"

"Yes…"

"So I wouldn't be wrong if I said you already know what I want to say?"

"John, I know you think I know, but I'm not completely sure that what you want to say is what I think I know," Sherlock explained, outwardly calm.

John nodded and took a deep breath. "Sherlock... I've been- I...- "

"You've been struggling with your emotions and feelings towards me for quite a long time. You feel that I should say what you want to say before you can say it, but you also want to say it yourself without me saying it beforehand. You asked for help, Molly most likely because Lestrade was busy and you needed a woman's advice and Mrs. Hudson is on the countryside visiting her sister. And since you didn't ask me, it suggests that whatever it is you have to say involves me and -"

"Don't make it more difficult than it already is, Sherlock," John pleaded.

Sherlock's head bobbed up and down once. "I do apologise."

There was a short silence in which both men looked into each other's eyes and before Sherlock could say anything, John made the first move.

"Sherlock, I know you consider yourself married to your work -"

"I do."

John gave Sherlock an exasperated look. "Please, shut up. This is already hard enough without you interrupting."

Sherlock nodded, and pressed his lips tightly shut.

"I like you, Sherlock, very much in fact. It might even be more that just liking. You s-"

"John-"

"see, I think I am in love with you, a-and if you don't want that, it's OK. If you want -"

"John -"

"- me to move out, I'll -"

"John -"

"- just go, and it's okay, you can just say it, no hard fee—"

"John, shut up!" Sherlock bellowed suddenly, getting to his feet, slamming his fist to the table. "I love you too, alright?"

John blinked, his mouth hanging open. "You… you do?"

Sherlock sank back in his chair, staring at his hands on top of the table. "Yes," he whispered.

With a simple, quick movement and a step forward, nothing more, their lips met in a very sweet and very shy kiss. It had seemed too much to do all those months, but now it was done in a matter of a heartbeat.

John kissed Sherlock really, really carefully, just like when he was a teenager and he knew he was about to kiss someone new, someone who had never been kissed before, someone who he wanted to feel special.

They kissed on and on, only stopping when they needed to catch their breaths.

"Sherlock..."

"John."

Sherlock kissed him again, hard. He slowly began to walk John backwards to his bedroom, until John's back opened the door. Shutting the door with his foot, he pushed John softly onto Sherlock's soft mattress. The detective landed on top of him, never once breaking the kiss.

They kissed so eagerly. They kiss as if their lives depended on it, on the fact their lips could never be apart again, on their breaths being mingled because breathing alone was just boring, on their hands on the other, on open eyes locked together.

John moved his shaking hands a bit further up, and attempted to unbutton Sherlock's shirt. He touched Sherlock pale, soft skin, teasing the nipples just as he would do if he were with a woman. And that was exactly the problem. John had been with so many women that being with a man, and with Sherlock of all men, was difficult. He was nervous.

Sherlock rolled them both over, placing John on top. It took the doctor some time to settle between Sherlock's long and still dressed legs comfortably, and when he was comfortable, these long legs clung to him, not letting go.

As soon as the shirt was gone, John's experienced hand traveled down and with a quick movement, the zipper was opened. Not long after, his hand met Sherlock's hard, long cock.

"John," Sherlock gasped, feeling that soft, tender hand caressing his erected member. John was so gentle, so tender and such a gentleman.

Sherlock knew John wanted to move further and do more things, but he couldn't just let go of those thin but sweet lips. John's kisses were amazing, tastier that he had ever been able to predict. John's lips and tongue tasted after an expensive mix of tea, jam and toothpaste. So addictive.

John left Sherlock's mouth, leaving their lips slightly swollen and deliciously wet. God, he took a look down and Sherlock was so hard, so ready for him as well. Sherlock had a perfect cock, long, thick, so flushed and the tip was a deep pink. It was so Sherlock, who was writing under him, a pink hue painted over his stomach and chest. With a quick movement of his hands, John stroked Sherlock's penis and the man lying on his back gasped for air, needful.

John liked that, he really did. He liked to watch the mighty Sherlock breathless, begging, burying his nails deep in the mattress, all under him.

The doctor wanted to hear him, he wanted to hear Sherlock crying his name and he wanted to be the only one making Sherlock do so. Fuck, he wanted to be the only one who was capable of making Sherlock come.

Oh God, yes. He was so totally going to do it.

While Sherlock continued biting his lip and suppressing his moans, John played with him, teasing him. He didn't care if Sherlock was going to come too soon; he really wanted to hear his name coming out Sherlock's erotic, full lips.

"John, please, I need you," Sherlock panted between moans, never once opening his bright grey eyes.

John smiled nervously. "I thought you'd never ask."

John started undressing Sherlock, removing his shoes, his socks and with a quick movement, the expensively tailored trousers were off as well. The only thing Sherlock was wearing now were a pair of silky dark boxers which were tightly stretched over Sherlock's hard cock.

And John loved the view he had.

However, who loved the view he had the most was Sherlock, who through his greyish eyes that used to be brightened by a deductive gleam were now clouded by lust, desire, need.

His John was wearing nothing but a pair of _red pants_ and they were tight, so tight. He could see the tip of John's painfully hard erection poking out of them. Those pants made John look important, big, sexy and powerful. Looking at John wearing nothing but a pair of red pants made Sherlock swallow hard, his heartbeat speeding up. God, he wanted him, he needed him more than anything right now.

Both forgot the fact they had been friends just a few minutes ago, and both forgot the fact it was their first time together, immediately after their mutual confession, immediately after their first kiss. Now both wanted to experience and feel each other's body, each other's love and each other's skin.

Both kept their positions, Sherlock lying on his back, with John trapped between his legs, their lips and their skins touching, sliding. John's lips covered Sherlock's body inch by inch with kisses, licks and nips, and both knew it was not enough. Still in their underwear, John continued kissing Sherlock, teasing him with a hand on one of his nipples and thrusting against his erection. The friction caused by the different types of fabrics, Sherlock's silky boxers and John's cotton red pants was causing havoc to both.

"John, please," Sherlock begged for the second time of that night, of his life, and John understood. They were not going to last much longer.

"Do you happen to have condoms? And some lube?"

Sherlock wasn't too far gone not to catch that hint. John was as nervous as he was, but he had it covered with a strong mask of lust. There was a gleam on John's blue eyes that took Sherlock's breath away. God, he wanted to feel John right now.

"Here," Sherlock pointed at his bedside table and John had to make a big effort to move himself off in between Sherlock's legs.

Surprisingly enough, the only things Sherlock had in that piece of furniture were condoms and lube. Lots of condoms, several boxes of condoms, and one big bottle of lube.

It was like finding tons of money on a homeless man's bag, John thought.

John laughed nervously as he grabbed a random condom and the first bottle of lube he could lay his hands on. "You were prepared,"

"Obviously," Sherlock admitted readily, and he made a gesture with his hand, telling John to hurry.

John felt like a clumsy teenager all over again. It was like experiencing his first time again, and Sherlock was that shy, hot girl in high school he shagged one afternoon after their stupid Math's class. John looked at his fingers, clumsily opening the condom bag... he definitely felt like a teenager again.

John was more than nervous, he was afraid. Sherlock was fragile, of course he was. Everyone took him as a strong, big man, so defiant, so confident. In the privacy of their lives, hell, in the privacy of Sherlock's bedroom, John was capable enough to know that Sherlock was as fragile as glass. He didn't want to do anything Sherlock didn't want him to. John really needed to know if Sherlock wanted this. Because John wanted it, so badly.

"What's wrong?"

John hesitated, staring at the condom in his hands. "I - I don't want to hurt you, Sherlock."

"I'm not a virgin, don't be scared, John," Sherlock said softly.

The blond man was still holding the condom, not moving, so Sherlock simply took it off his hands and proceeded to dress his hard erection with it. John just let him, and then Sherlock gently nipped one of his earlobes.

"I need you, John, please."

John obeyed, kneeling on the mattress while Sherlock squirted a large amount of lube on his fingers. It had been a long time since he last did this, one of those past men he had was just as John, a women's man who wanted to feel a new sensation. Sherlock had prepared him enough to don't hurt him and that was exactly what he was doing to John right now. Sherlock removed John's _red pants_ with ease, and threw them to the floor. John wasn't going to need them any time soon, was he?

Then Sherlock gingerly rubbed his index finger against John's entrance and moved a finger inside, exploring John and trying to make what was about to come easier.

"Sher -"

"Are you alright? Do you want me to stop?"

"Oh, God, no."

Sherlock chuckled and continued fucking John with one finger until he felt he was open enough to add another one. He had to be patient, Sherlock needed John to be prepared enough to carry on, but he really felt like if it was enough.

"I'm going to add a third -"

"Do it, Sherlock. Now, please."

John sounded so desperate, so needy. He was so excited about this, he wanted to make it so good and special.

The inexperienced one was John, who had done it once, many years ago as some sort of experiment. Now he wanted Sherlock, and Sherlock was determined to make their first time special and not a complete mess, filled with unnecessary tears and blood.

When John felt those fingers prodding inside him, trying to find that one spot and the cold sensation of lube, he felt as if he was going to explode soon. He wanted to last as much as Sherlock wanted him to.

It was now or never.

"Sherlock, I'm ready. Please,"

Sherlock nodded, a bit confused "Just let me add another finger -"

"I need you and I know you need it."

Sherlock extended his arms and John got it. They kissed deeply while Sherlock lay down on his back, John was on top of him in seconds.

And then John broke the kiss. He sat down on Sherlock's hips and rocked back and forth, testing. Sherlock felt his member touching the curve of John's arse and the feeling, the sensation was so mind blowing. John guided his hard member until it was very, very close to his own entrance, and then…. Then he slowly lowered himself on Sherlock, impaling, taking Sherlock in.

Sherlock's hands, which had been travelling tenderly and delicately up and down John's spine, were now strongly glued to John's hips, his fingernails digging deep into John's soft skin. Sherlock squeezed his eyes tightly shut. John was so tight, so warm, he felt so good.

He moaned softly and opened his eyes, longing to see John on top of him, John wasn't moving yet, his body needed to adjust to Sherlock's length before he could do that. His body was tense, his head thrown back and his blue eyes shut in bliss. They were the closest two human being could ever get, there was no way back now.

Finally, John raised himself before slowly falling down. His soft, desperate moans were the most perfect sound Sherlock ever heard, and he filed them away immediately. They were soft, and yet loud. They were so erotic, sensual and yet cuddly and adorable. John continued rocking up and down, even making some circular and experimental movements, measuring Sherlock's responses. The detective wasn't precisely _small_, his erection was large, in fact, and it was quite odd to feel it with John's inexperience, but they fitted together so well. They were like a two piece puzzle and they were just perfect.

Sherlock's hands, still on John's hips, helped him to move up and down and they increased the rhythm when Sherlock felt himself brushing that particular spot that was going to grant them both a big wave of pleasure. As soon as his member touched John's prostate, John rocked faster, moaning Sherlock's name louder, not really caring about anything but Sherlock.

"John... you're so tight, ah..."

John finally opened his eyes and looked down at Sherlock. Their eyes met and both smiled softly. John took Sherlock's hand and placed it on his own erection. Sherlock firmly stroked him in pace with John's thrusts, John moved himself faster, up and down, up and down, making Sherlock's member hit his prostate with each thrust.

"John, you feel so good... ah, OH!"

John chuckled breathlessly. "Do I? C'mon Sherlock."

Sherlock caught that and sat. He glues his arms to John's torso and both kissed. This new position was good, better than before.

"John... I'm going to... ah!"

The doctor nodded shakily, kissing him deeply, before covering Sherlock's hand which was on his cock between their sweaty and dancing bodies with his own.

Sherlock felt himself so close. John was tight around him and soon he felt his own muscles go tight, he was close, so close. The detective make them both roll on the bed, now he was on top finally, he had the control he wanted. Sherlock thrust deep inside John, only twice, and with a loud moan he came deep inside his lover. His hand never stopped moving and stroking John's erection until he also came with Sherlock's name on his lips.

Sherlock collapsed on top of John and sloppily kissed his neck and his jaw, moving slowly, very slowly until both met each other lips. This time the kiss wasn't deep or rough, it was just a very sweet, very post-coital and very _loving_ kiss.

"Well?"

John smiled lazily. "Well what?"

"Does that make us something?"

"We can be whatever you want us to be. Though I'd prefer partners over fuck-buddies, thank you very much."

Sherlock frowned. "Fuck-buddies?"

"Friends who shag when they feel like?" John suggested.

"Boyfriends?" Sherlock rolled of John, pulling him close.

Oh. John smiled fondly. "I thought you wouldn't like that word,"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"No idea," John said, kissing Sherlock while he sat up on the bed. He started looking at the floor, clearly looking for his clothes. "Did you see my pants?"

Sherlock smiled. "No." He placed his hand against John's back, reassuring himself John was really here.

"Well, I'll have a very nice and log bath, and _now_ you're allowed to join me," John teased, giving Sherlock a sweet peck on the lips before standing up.

Still lying in his blissful post-coital haze, Sherlock looked at John's naked form walking to the bathroom. Then he glanced at the piece of red clothing he had in his hand.

Those _red pants_ were truly inspiring.

Sherlock carefully folded them, placing them under his pillow. John's red pants. Worn on their first night together. He smiled when he heard John calling that the bath was ready, and he got to his feet as well.

The red pants remained under Sherlock's pillow.

…

The End.


End file.
